


wrath // rising sun

by Vault_of_Glass



Category: Far Cry: New Dawn
Genre: Gen, Scars, Tattoos, and growing friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 02:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18202559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vault_of_Glass/pseuds/Vault_of_Glass
Summary: in which the judge would like a tattoo, and the captain is happy to oblige them.





	wrath // rising sun

she feels them staring sometimes at the ink that sprawls her arms, even through the mask. that’s nothing new - she designed the tattoos to be seen - she just wasn’t expecting such interest from the judge. she never knows what to expect from them, if she’s being honest. just that same breathy quiet, voice choked down into silence, broken and misused for god only knows how long. it used to set her on edge, but now, after all the time they’ve spent fighting together, working and sweating and hurting to right things in a shattered world, the quiet feels… calm. reassuring.

she wonders how it feels to them.

* * *

the others notice her work, but hurk is the first to make a request. she pens a name in elegant script over his heart, sharp as the needle that carries the ink, and sharky is quick to follow for one of his own. friends and strangers start to find her when there is a name, an image, a moment they want immortalized, their faces grateful and smiling even after hours under her needle. there is something inherently hopeful in the act, creating something for the future, permanent and loved and never to be taken away. between the firefights and running for her life, the tattoos and their pleased recipients have become a welcome distraction.

she’s inking little blue flowers into the back of carmina’s shoulder when they both sense that familiar presence behind them.

“you should get one, too,” carmina tells them, her tilting head steadied back into place with a chiding click of the captain’s tongue.

“no moving, you.”

carmina laughs, though she is careful to keep her shoulders still. “she’s bossy, but she’s good at what she does."

the judge leans in to study her work so far, the steady progression of needle and ink across skin as she fills in the color of the petals, and they breathe a small grunt of acknowledgement. it’s the sound they make when she lands a particularly long range shot, or takes another highwayman down with only her trusty railroad spike and not a single whisper to alert the others.

“glad you like it.” and grateful neither carmina nor the judge can see the warmth in her cheeks. “if you ask nicely, i’d be happy to give you one, too.”

a  _hmph_ then, abrupt and rough, followed by the empty silence to the air that indicates they’ve left, evidently finished with the conversation.

“i think they like you,” carmina offers brightly.

“well, they certainly like you.”

carmina almost nods, but stops and gives a little hum instead. “i like them, too,” she says in a soft voice. “take care of ‘em, captain… okay?”

* * *

carmina’s bougainvillea have probably all healed over by the time the judge comes to find her. they close the door behind themself, gloved hands against the battered wood. those hands have pressed her gunshot wounds to stop the bleeding, have pulled her to her feet when an explosion sent her flying, adjusted her grip on her bow when her shots flew wide. she doesn’t know much about the judge - only what the others have told her, stories that feel more like legends - but she knows she can trust those hands.

when the judge gestures over at her ink kit on the table, the closest they can come to asking nicely, it occurs to her at once how much they must trust hers too. not just with their life, because she and all of prosperity need them, but with their flesh, with their something hopeful.

she rolls up her sleeves and reaches for her sketchpad. “take a seat, my friend. you are in good hands.”

it takes a series of hand motions from the judge and calculated guessing on her part to arrive at their intended concept, but she takes their every gesture into consideration. she sketches while she talks, progressing through a first few designs that get ripped out and crumpled and tossed to the floor. the judge watches her work with an air of patience, gloved hands clasped between their knees, turning their mask into the sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window.

she catches the brief, giddy rush of inspiration at the sight, their body language restful and calm in the soft glow of sunshine, so much hurt and pain in them momentarily put at ease, and her hands are already dashing across the page to try and capture that sense of relief.

“this is it,” she tells them, barely suppressing the excitement in her voice as she puts the finishing touches on her design. “i really think this is it.”

when she passes the sketchpad over, the judge holds it carefully in their lap, their mask downturned to study every inch of the page before them. two minutes of silence drag on, then three, then longer until she loses track of the time and all her confidence has withered down into a shriveled, tiny thing. “you get veto, of course, i mean it’s your body and your idea, and if you don’t like it, i can keep trying until i find just what you’d like and -”

the judge lifts their head and extends a hand to briefly clap her on the shoulder, drawing her rambling short. they hand the sketchpad back to her and tap their finger at the page with a determined nod. that quiet breath again, approval.  _this one._

she exhales a sigh of relief, a smile spreading wide across her face. “you like it.”

another nod.

“i’m so glad. where, uh…” and she realizes at this point that she’s never seen even an inch of the judge’s skin before, and the logistics of tattooing them seem abruptly far more complicated. “where would you like it?”

slowly, without pause, they start to loosen the straps of their clothing. she drops her gaze, watching from her peripheral as the judge peels back the collar of their makeshift coat to expose the bare skin of their chest, pale and scarred over hard muscle, and the jagged white letters carved so brutally across the skin there.  _wrath_.

they point one finger toward the faded scar tissue and tilt their head ever so slightly to the side in silent question.

“yeah,” she says finally, when she can find her voice again. “yeah, i can do it there. no worries.”

they give a few more smaller nods, and she rises to help them recline in the battered armchair so she can get started. “it’s gonna hurt, of course,” she warns them. “but nothing worse than shit you’ve dealt with before, i’m sure. and…” she pauses, weighing her words. “this time, it’s your choice. you’re in control, and you can stop whenever you want. that always helps me through the pain of it a little.”

the judge huffs a breath in assent. their body is still, their breathing even.

“and when i’m done…” she glances over at the sketchpad on the desk, the dawning sun against white paper, hopeful, calm, unchanging. “the sun will rise. and you’ll always have that.” she lets her palm hover over their chest, where their heart beats.

their mask turns to meet her gaze, and their voice rumbles a grateful noise, deep in the base of their throat.

“anytime, my friend. lie back and take it easy. i’ll take care of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> i just want good things for the judge, all right? they deserve all the comfort and healing, even if it stings a little <3


End file.
